Northwind
by ozymandius the albatross
Summary: In the far north the son of a great king is out to claim his father's throne, and sets the lupine commander of his army on a bitter quest for revenge. Meanwhile in Redwall a young ottermaid finds herself caught up in a world she thought she left behind.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** This is my first fic, I never had any intention of publishing it but my proof reader persuaded me that it is in fact worth reading. I hope that you agree and that you give me some useful feedback. Also although my pen name is the same as one of the characters I would like to make it clear that the character came first and this is not a blatant case of self-insertion.

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Alexei glanced neither left nor right as he walked hurriedly through the deserted corridors of the darkened fortress. He did not speak, and the six guards behind him did not dare make any sound. Alexei's reputation for brutality was well earned; they each knew all too well his harsh and unpredictable temper, as well as the merciless and sadistic punishments he dealt to any who provoked it.

He and his guards were ermine: stoats with snow-white fur, inhabiting the lands of the far North. Since farther back than any beast could speak of the ermine had been divided; a collection of scattered tribes, too busy fighting each other to consider anything more than how best to defeat their neighbours, only coming together to conquer a mutual rival. These loose alliances never lasted for long after the end of the conflict, with two groups fighting alongside each other one season and against each other the next. But that had all changed when Alexei's father: Ivan, the warrior king, had forced them into one nation.

For the first time the ermine looked up from their petty quarrels long enough to see that united they were a force powerful enough to take the land around them for their own. Within a decade they were the unchallenged rulers from the sea in the west far into the tundra in the east. All this was ruled over by Ivan from his fortress of Ivangrad on the coast, built by the hundreds of slaves swallowed up in his ravenous conquest. In the south his realm ended only where his lust for conquest died, while in the north, his rule extended to the edge of the great ice. Superstition and myth told of great and terrible beasts that dwelt on the immense sheets, if anything could indeed scrape a living in those endless wastes. There no-beast ventured; no-beast, it was said, except the wolves.

The strongest, wisest and most mysterious of peoples in all of Ivan's vast kingdom, the wolves roamed the frozen tundra, hunting fiercer game and braving crueller conditions than any ermine could survive. They had been there long before the ermine, from an age long past, long forgotten; an age of stone, and blood. Some common folk even believed they were left from the dawning of the world itself. They were an enigmatic race; governed by honour, blood ties and superstition. Their complex religion was a mystery to outsiders, centred around the spirits of their ancestors and containing a thousand rituals, traditions and sacraments of which only the venerated shamans knew the entirety.

Unparalleled in battle but few in numbers they had sworn their allegiance to Ivan, serving as commanders in his horde. Every company of ermine was led by a captain who answered directly to a wolf general who in turn answered to their marshal. The marshals were selected as the finest warriors and tacticians from among the wolf soldiers, and on the battlefield were second only to the great king himself. Even during peacetime they had as much authority as Ivan's councillors. Of course there were many ermine who resented this privileged position, many who would gladly see the wolves banished or exterminated, but there were few who would be willing to voice such thoughts. The wolves had a harsh code of justice which could reach outside the confines of their own clans.

Alexei knew as his footsteps echoed around the great hall that he couldn't turn back now; what was to be done must be done. He thought of his father, he'd surely be sleeping; Ivan was always tired in his old age. And he was old indeed; the Great King had sat on his throne many long years. Too many. It had been more than forty seasons since he had united the tribes, forty seasons growing more and more out of his prime. Now many of his followers from those early days were dead and buried, and himself wizened and toothless. His body was descending into frailty, his mind becoming slower, and more and more of his subjects believed that his vast reign was drawing to its end. But despite all this the aging ruler refused to die, every season Alexei waited for the throne to be his and every season he was kept that way: waiting.

But now the time for waiting was over; he'd worked too hard for his place on the throne to sit by patiently while his father's reign dragged on and on. Ivan had had three sons in his lifetime: his first wife had died giving to birth his first son, who had died in turn within just a few days. His second wife had given him two sons: Alexei and his elder brother, Vlad. Vlad had of course been heir to the throne, but he'd had a convenient hunting accident two seasons ago, leaving Alexei as Ivan's sole successor.

Vlad's death had hit Ivan hard; he became dispirited, more prone to sudden outbursts and acts of cruelty; even more so following the death of Alexei's mother, Valentina. He'd always liked the idea of his favourite son following in his footsteps. Vlad had always been more like their father; strong but just; ruthless in war yet gracious in victory. He wanted to bring about Ivan's vision of transforming the North into a peaceful, civilised and prosperous land; a land where a beast could spend his hard-earned wealth on luxuries rather than weapons. He'd even tried to introduce coinage to the ermine, although most still clung to the old ways of bartering and subsistence farming.

Alexei was different: he wasn't bothered about maintaining his empire; he was only concerned with building one. Where Ivan was content with his already vast kingdom Alexei wanted more. Who cared if his subjects were rich or poor, if towns and cities traded with each other? The ermine were a warrior people, they had always hungered for conquest but when they were at last strong enough to take all that could be theirs, should be theirs, Ivan was only content to settle for what they had. His father was weak, his brother had been weak, only he was strong enough to be a truly great king.

As he rounded a corner he came face to face with none other Alek Silverpelt. He was a wolf, one of Ivan's most trusted marshals; his leadership, fighting prowess and loyalty to his king were unquestionable. He had long been a thorn in Alexei's side; he was doubtless wary of his ambitions as king, and may even have suspected his involvement in Vlad's death.

Alek gave him and his six guards only the briefest of glances, but his sharp eyes took in everything. Even for a wolf he was big: he towered over the ermine, standing almost twice as high as Alexei, who was by no means small in stature. A magnificent physical specimen of a wolf, his gargantuan frame was covered by sinew and powerful muscle, all hidden under his silver-grey fur, which glistened in the moonlight shining through the fortress' windows. Two bright yellow eyes and knife-like fangs made a fearsome sight. His face was devoid of expression, but in the shadowy corridor it made him look all the more menacing.

'Where might ye be going with six of your father's soldiers at this hour my prince?' His thick lupine accent came out strongly in his calm voice.

'Just on my way to check up on the wall guard,' Alexei replied just as calmly, 'you of all beasts would understand the need for disciplined soldiers.' Alek raised one silvery eyebrow,

'And yet I find you inside?'

'I wanted to find captain Vilnik, since it's his company on sentry duty tonight.' There was a silence as Alek considered Alexei's words.

'Very well my prince I was merely curious. Just be careful, someone may find it suspicious for young princes to wonder the fortress at night with half a dozen armed beasts.' As he strode off the way Alexei and his guards had come thoughts raced around Alexei's mind. Alek knew, he was sure of it, his cursed mind was conditioned to smelling out treachery. He turned to two of his guards,

'Split up and find Vilnik. Be quick about it, do not allow the marshal to find him first. Tell him to gather as many ermine as can be found and wipe out the Silverpelt clan.' There was silence as his guards wondered if they had heard right. Finally one dared to speak,

'My Lord?' he said nervously, 'What did you say?'

'I said wipe out the Silverpelt clan before that accursed marshal can tell them of what we're going to do. Now I suggest you go now and never question me again, or would you prefer to go back to the barracks and find a dozen wolves waiting for you?' This time there was no hesitation. The two ermine hurried off as Alexei and the rest of his guards entered the throne room. The room was mostly plain, but attention was immediately drawn to the magnificent throne. It truly was fit for a king; formed from dark imported hardwood and encased in gold, marble and diamonds mined from the frozen tundra and raised on a dais of granite so that all Ivan's subjects had to look up at their king.

At the rear of the room was a small door which led to a small corridor. As he walked the length of the corridor and through the door he could hear his heart pounding in his ears. His paw trembled slightly as he opened the door and stepped into the royal bedchamber. There were no guards; gold and promises had done their treacherous work. His whole body was tense as he made his way across the room to where his father lay sleeping. It took an age, but then at last he was standing over Ivan's unconscious form. It was almost ironic, he thought: the great king, who had conquered all around him, brought all of the North under his rule, would die in his sleep without a word.

It wasn't him that drew the knife, he was merely watching from a distance, he couldn't feel his paws around the handle as he pressed it to his father's throat. Then the silver blade flashed across the soft skin of his neck, and then it was him again. Ivan's eyes snapped open for an instant, then closed slowly as a river of crimson flowed from the lifeless corpse. Alexei raised a paw to his cheek and felt the blood that had sprayed across his face. He studied his father's body, remembered how those eyes had been fixed on him in their final moment of life. Had they seen him? Had Ivan known it was his own son who betrayed him?

He brought himself sharply back to earth as the magnitude of what he had done hit him like a sledgehammer. He had murdered the king. He had killed his brother. He was king. Or at least he would be, for until the army swore allegiance to him he was merely first in line. He turned to his guards,

'Find whatever guards you can, tell them that the king has been slain, then go and deal with that grey-furred problem that calls itself Alek.'

'Why should they want to kill the marshal sire?' asked one of the guards. Alexei's face was fixed in a wicked grin,

'The old king has been murdered, and the new king orders them to execute the murderer.' As the guards hurried away to do his bidding he strode casually into the throne room. Sitting on the magnificent throne he looked around at the empty room and laughed, starting softly, then rising until it was eerie and maniacal. He was king.

x x x

Lyla kept her eyes closed as she submerged herself in the sounds and smells of summer. She could hear the sharp trills of birdsong, the laughter of dibbuns as they raced across the lawns, the soft drone of insects that buzzed lazily around the abbey grounds. She could smell the blossom blowing gently over from the fruit trees in the orchard, soup simmering in the kitchens, and, her favourite, the sickly sweet scent of the honey in the beehives. Honey was for her what just-caught fish is for an otter, or a banquet to a starving hare. She adored the deep, sugary taste that clung to her tongue, the way a single drop could fill her mouth with flavour. Sometimes she wished she was a bee purely so that she could live off it.

Lyla was unusual for two reasons: firstly, she was extraordinarily young to be Abbess of Redwall, and secondly, she was the first abbot or abbess that was a vole. At only eighteen seasons she was barely into adulthood and already governing the abbey - many had said that it was too much responsibility for one so young. But she had proven herself as a capable an abbess as any could hope for, and silenced even the most traditional of beasts. She had no regrets herself, which was more than could be said for the young male voles she held captivated by her pretty blue eyes.

Finally she opened her eyes and spied the lean figure of an otter standing on the abbey walls. She squinted and made it out to be none other than her friend, Tarna Bloodfjord. She smiled to herself and made her way to the steps that led up to the ramparts. Tarna was the same age as her to within a few weeks, and the pair had been best friends since they were dibbuns dashing around the abbey and hiding under the beds at bathtime together. Unlike Lyla however Tarna had not been born at Redwall. She and her brother, Riktor, had travelled to Redwall from the far North when he had been a mere seven seasons of age, and she scarcely more than a babe. Their mother had died not long after Tarna had been born, and after their father died the two had travelled south and arrived at Redwall as orphans, starving and weak from their incredible journey. No-beast could believe that two such young children could make a journey as far as they described: the abbey records spoke of lands to the north where Luke, father of the legendary Martin the Warrior had come from, and beyond that the land of the warlord Urgan Nagru, the so-called Foxwolf. But according to Tarna and her brother they came from a land further north still: a land of constant snow and ice and day-long darkness in the winter. Most doubted that such a land even existed, let alone that two otter cubs could travel from there to Redwall alone, but that season a rare and exotic bird had come to Redwall. His name was Ozymandius, and he told them that he was an albatross.

He told the Redwallers that he had spent his entire life travelling, and, among other things, that he had seen many strange and distant lands, to the East, West, South, and, of course, to the North. He confirmed that there were lands so far north that snow lay on the ground for nearly the whole year, though it was still a wonder that the two young otters could have made such a journey. Ozymandius had left at the end of the season, continuing his nomadic existence, but during his time at Redwall they had learned a great deal about the world outside the abbey walls. He had not been seen in Mossflower since, although they had heard word once that he had been spotted by a sea otter travelling down the Western Coast.

But all that was many seasons ago, Tarna and Riktor could barely remember their icy homeland, nor their parents or any other beast from their old life. Both had become as much a part of Redwall as any beast could, Riktor had even risen to the highest honour among otters, the Skipper of Otters.

Tarna turned around as she heard Lyla coming up the steps. She was leaning against the battlements and holding a nearly empty bottle of cordial. She looked and dressed just as any ordinary ottermaid, with a plain smock belted around the waist with a pouch hanging from it, probably holding shrimp or prawns for her to snack on. She wore no jewellery or ornaments, as is common with many otters who prefer to sacrifice fashion for practicality. As she spotted her friend her face broke into a smile and she waved a webbed paw cheerily.

'Hello Lyla,' she said, 'out enjoying the sunshine?'

'As usual,' Lyla replied, 'we don't get enough good weather these days.' Tarna nodded in agreement,

'You're right there, it's been one storm after another this summer; Brother Jonah's distraught over his orchards.' Lyla shook her head in exasperation,

'I keep telling him it really doesn't matter; we've such a surplus of fruit every year that the cellars are overflowing with jams and pickles. Hieronymus is already up in arms about storing them in the wine cellar. Maybe he could make some space by getting rid of that awful absynthe.'

Hieronymus was the abbey's resident cellarhog. Recently he had been causing Lyla a great deal of annoyance with his latest invention, a potent brew he called spring vegetable absynthe. He claimed to have based it on an ancient recipe passed down through his family, and that he was merely following a hallowed cellarhog tradition, but whatever his motives it was far and away the strongest drink ever brewed within the abbey's walls. After her appointment as abbess Lyla had made her views on spirits very clear, but she as yet been unable to ban their consumption owing mainly to the popularity of the drink among members of the abbey council.

'So what brings you up here on this fine afternoon?' said Tarna.

'Nothing important, I just fancied some company. You?'

'Just wanted some peace and quiet, away from the swarm of dibbuns trying to make you carry them all. I thought about going for a swim but knowing dibbuns they'd probably have followed me.' Lyla gave a short chuckle,

'You mean like you used to when Riktor didn't want to play hide and seek with you?' Tarna smiled as she fished a shrimp from her pouch and popped it in her mouth. Lyla wrinkled her nose in disgust, 'How can you eat those things raw?' she said.

'With much delight.' Tarna replied, tossing another one up and catching it in her mouth. Lyla shook her head,

'Otters.' she muttered under her breath.

'By the way,' said Tarna, 'have you spoken to Koona recently?'

'No, why?'

'It's just he's been acting a bit...I don't know, a bit odd I guess.'

'Odd? How do you mean?' Tarna shrugged,

'Well he just seems like he's on a cloud somewhere all the time, and when he speaks he just gabbles.' Lyla thought for a moment,

'I don't know, I guess he must be going through one of those phases, you know what I mean?'

'I suppose, I'm just a little worried about him. Do you think you could talk to him the next time you see him?'

'Ok, anyway it's probably time for lunch soon. Shall we go inside?' Tarna smiled,

'Sounds like a plan, I'm almost out of shrimp.' The pair walked away, Lyla shaking her head in wonderment as Tarna shoved the last pawful of pungent shellfish into her mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

Had anybeast been passing through that particular part of the forest, they would most likely have seen nothing; maybe a large rock lying half in the river. If they had taken the time to look closer, they may have noticed that it was in fact covered in grey fur, and had the shape of a great creature. It is almost certain though that however closely they scrutinised the object they could never have imagined that it was still breathing.

Alek lay unconscious on the riverbank, the lower half of his body submerged in the icy water. A few hours ago the water would have been crimson from scores of deep wounds, but since then the deep cold had closed off the severed blood vessels. His body was completely motionless, with not so much as a twitch from a single muscle. He was to all effect dead. It is said there are some times, when a beast is held to this world only by the thinnest of threads, they can see death. Some would simply let go of that thread but some, for whatever reason, hold on.

Slowly, by degrees, Alek's dim yellow eyes opened. He lay there still, blinking in the pale dawn light. He took in the sound of the birds in the trees that were all around him, the smell of pine resin and leaf mould. No beast could guess at what thoughts manifested themselves in his mind in those minutes, but slowly, surely, he brought himself back into the world of the living.

By sheer will he summoned the last dregs of strength from his torn limbs, dragging himself gradually, painfully onto the bank. His lifeless lower body hung useless behind him, hind legs completely numbed by the cold. After an eternity he lay motionless again, but this time narrowly, but definitely alive. As the sun rose higher in the sky mist began to rise from the forest floor, and life began to return to his legs. He gave a sharp gasp of pain as the blood flowed back through slowly reopening veins, and after nearly an hour he was able to half crawl, half drag his shattered body away from the bank and onto dry soil, warmed by the sun which shone faintly through the trees.

The sun was almost at its zenith before he could properly move his legs; only slightly at first, but more and more as the blood flowed freely again, reviving his deadened muscles. He managed to sit himself upright with his back resting against the trunk of a large tree; there he took his kilt, the only cloth he had, and tore it into shreds which he used to roughly bind his wounds, mostly stemming the blood that flowed freely. He managed to dress the most serious injuries before exhaustion and loss of blood overcame him and he passed out once more.

Hard to believe that only hours ago he had been the most feared and respected warrior in a great king's army. In those few hours his entire life had been shattered: everything he knew, everything he loved swept away by the greed of a would-be king.

x x x

As he left Alexei standing in the darkened corridor he knew that he had only minutes to act. If he couldn't do something quickly the king was going to die, but there was no way he could openly accuse the king's son of high treason without some sort of proof. He had to find Vilnik: he was the key to this. He'd known for some time that the ambitious captain was a close follower of Alexei, but he hadn't imagined treachery of this magnitude. He cursed himself for his complacency, still, this was no time for reprimanding himself; he had to find Vilnik and as many wolves as possible along the way.

He walked as briskly as he could; the officers' quarters were on the other side of the fortress and every second he spent getting there was another second for Alexei to do his treacherous work. When he eventually arrived there was no sign of Vilnik. He swore under his breath in Old Lupine: either Vilnik was never there and he had no chance of finding him in time, or Alexei's lackeys had found him first, and he was furthering his treachery. There was nothing for it, he thought: he would have to get to Ivan's bedchamber and catch Alexei red-handed.

He ran through the corridors that led back to the throne room, and had made it about halfway when he found the way blocked by eight ermine soldiers. He stared at them incredulously for a moment, before speaking with anger clear in his voice,

'Do ye dare impede a marshal?' he said, 'Out of the way, insolent swine!' Still the ermine blocked the corridor. 'Do you know what you are doing?' said Alek, his voice thick with rage and disbelief, 'The king will be murdered if I do not reach him immediately!' Still no movement. Finally one of the ermine spoke in a voice broken up by fear,

'The king has been murdered, and his son has ordered the one who killed him slain.' There was silence as the words rang in Alek's ears.

'Are ye mad?' he said softly. Still silence. He sighed to himself: he knew what had to be done.

Without warning his great muscles exploded into life, blasting him forward into the ermine. Two were killed instantly, bones shattered by the sheer impact. Two more were hurled into the walls, smashing skulls and spines against the cold stone. The remaining four were still in shock when Alek grabbed one and flung him bodily into another, then broke the back of yet another with his bare paws. The last one turned tail and fled with speed born of utter terror. Let him run he thought, he didn't matter now.

Was it too late then? Had the king really been murdered? So it seemed; not only that but he was accused as the murderer. He had failed his king, his honour lay in tatters: what should he do now? What could he do? Was there anything worth doing anymore? Yes. Revenge. Even as he set off the way he came a plan was forming in his mind. Get to the barracks: if there were any vermin not taken in by Alexei's lies he would have to get them on his side. Then he would make for the home of his clan; he was not only the late king's most trusted marshal, he was the son of the Silverpelt chieftain. It took only a word from his father and the entire clan would rally behind him. It didn't matter how many ermine Alexei had behind him, nothing could stand up to an entire wolf-pack.

He reached the barracks and burst through the door, only to find the room empty save for a paunchy cook named Dmitri. Alek grabbed him by the shoulders and lifted him clean off the floor. He thrust his face, fangs bared in a horrific snarl, just inches from Dmitri's,

'Where are all the others?' he demanded growled with as much menace as he could muster. It took some time for Dmitri to be able to speak through the sheer terror that gripped him,

'Captain Vilnik.' he stuttered, 'He said the wolves had murdered the king, and that the prince had ordered them slain.'

'The prince lies.' Alek snarled back at him, 'And he has sent your comrades to their deaths. Tell me, did they all believe so easily that they could kill every wolf in this land?' Dmitri shook his head vigorously,.

'No marshal, not all of them. Just...just...'

'Out with it!' Alek bellowed at the hapless ermine.

'Just the Silverpelt clan.' Alek dropped him to the floor, where he lay curled up and shaking. Alek stood dead still, his eyes staring wide open. Dmitri saw the look in his eyes and crawled as fast as he could into the furthest corner of the room. For a while there was silence, save for the heavy breathing of Alek until without warning he broke from his trance and sprinted from the barracks, sending tables flying and he shoved his way across the room. Dmitri merely stayed in his corner, shaking and sobbing.

Alek sprinted through the fortress gate and out into the countryside, running west towards his home. After half an hour his muscles were burning, screaming at him to stop, rest, but he kept on running. Branches cut his face as he ran at full tilt through the pine forests, paws kicking up clouds of powdery snow. All the while thoughts raced around his mind like a flock of startled birds; anger, shock, fear, despair; every feeling imaginable.

He reached the cavern that was his clan's home, and found a scene of total carnage. Around the entrance to the cave were strewn the bodies of scores of ermine, some torn limb from limb. As he walked slowly through the blood and gore he saw one white body that was still gasping for air through the blood that gurgled in his throat. Alek crouched down and lifted his head in his great paws,

'Tell me what happened here.' he said. The ermine coughed up a wave of blood before he spoke,

'Captain Vilnik told us the Silverpelts were traitors, that they had to be killed.' he stopped talking as he began choking. Alek slapped him on the back and more blood spurted from his mouth. He breathed heavily before continuing, 'He told us they were wicked and deceitful, and all sorts of things about what they planned to do to us, to our families; but he lied, didn't he? We rushed in while most of them were sleeping, they didn't have a chance. We killed the males, the females, then we stopped, but Vilnik said they all had to die. One soldier tried to leave but Vilnik gutted him; he said anyone who was too cowardly to kill them was a traitor. So we killed them all, even the cubs.' He stopped again as yet more blood flowed from his lips. 'Please sir,' he gasped, 'please forgive me, I was only following orders: I'm just a soldier, like you.' Once again he began choking on blood. Alek just watched for almost a minute, then he suddenly pulled him close to him. There was a sharp crack and the ermine's head lolled backwards; eyes dulled over and a thin trickle of blood flowing gently from his lips.

Alek stood up and half walked, half stumbled into the cavern. He remained inside for more than an hour. To this day no-one knows what he may have vowed, what curses he may have uttered, by what unholy power he may have sworn his revenge by. When he emerged he was carrying a cloth bundle. He placed it on the ground and unwrapped it to reveal a great battleaxe, its blade engraved with strange patterns and symbols, and a giant crossbow, fashioned from seasoned oak and reinforced with a band of iron. With the bow was a bundle of bolts, each nearly four feet in length. He wore no armour, nothing more than his woollen kilt, woven into a pattern of drab. He strapped the crossbow bolts to his back, and hung the bow over his shoulders by its broad leather strap. Taking his axe, he ran off the way he had come, back towards the fortress and the one who had so casually destroyed his life.

As he reached the edge of the forest he moved silently on padded paws. The trees ended a long way short of the fortress walls, leaving about three hundred feet of open ground between Alek and the gate. He scanned the battlements and saw the silhouettes of two ermine; one standing above the gatehouse and the other walking along the parapet towards him. Carefully he fitted one of the giant bolts to his bowstring. Raising it to his shoulder he waited until the gap between the two was just right, then fired at the one standing still.

The perfectly timed shot flew through the air like a silent angle of death, hitting one ermine just as the other passed him. Both were sent plummeting lifeless from the walls. With the coast clear Alek left the cover of the tree line and sprinted towards the gate. The huge door was four inches of solid oak, reinforced with metal bars and studded with lumps of iron. Raising his axe, he summoned all of his great strength, focused all his hatred on the mighty gate, and swung.

Behind the gate guards were running to and fro as the giant gate began to splinter under the assault. The two shot by Alek lay where they had fallen from the towering walls, pinned together by the massive bolt. In the centre of the courtyard was an ermine captain trying to organise the guards into ranks.

'Form lines!' he shouted again and again, 'Form lines of ten; spears at front, bows to the back!' After a minute or so the foot soldiers were formed into two lines of spears and a dozen archers behind them. All eyes were fixed on the gate which shuddered with each blow. After several minutes of waiting the tension had reduced several ermine to shaking in terror; those that had seen the wounded coming back from the Silverpelt cave: limbs torn off, bellies ripped open and guts spilled out.

Finally there was an almighty crash and the gates were smashed open. In the gap stood Alek, the moon at his back transforming him into a ghastly silhouette. Rage and madness burned in his eyes as he sprinted towards them. A volley of arrows flew at him, three of them finding their mark. But he was no longer part of this world, he did not feel pain; he was here to die. Bulling into the ranks of foot soldiers he sent many flying with his enormous momentum. Whirling the axe above his head he spun around, bringing it down in a sweep that cleaved through two ermine like they were made of butter. Spinning again he hacked another clean in two. Spearpoints pierced him from all sides but he took no notice, scything away at ermine in every direction. Before long there were only the archers left standing, most of whom had already fled on seeing his awesome power. Leaping towards them he caught one ermine as he tried to run, pinning the hapless soul to his body with his axe haft. The ermine cried out in pain before his back snapped and he dropped, lifeless. On seeing this the remaining archers turned tail and fled.

Alek sprinted after them, rounding a corner and finding himself faced with another score of ermine. These were not mere foot soldiers but members of Ivan's royal bodyguard. Armed with swords and axes and armoured in the finest chainmail they were the most elite soldiers of Ivan's army. Once more he flung himself into the mêlée, driven on by rage and anguish. Once more he carved the ermine to shreds, but this time the weapons of the enemy did their work well. At the end of the fight he was covered in wounds from the seeking blades of swords, and his skull carried a deep wound from a devastating axe-blow.

This time the punishment was too much for his mighty body. With the cleaved and eviscerated bodies of the dead all around him, his instinct took over and drove him back; back into the woods and towards the last faint hope of survival. He could not say how long he staggered around blindly between the trees, bleeding freely from a hundred different wounds. After hours of semi-conscious wandering he reached the icy river Kronestov. He bent down to drink, and with his parched tongue lapping up water voraciously he passed out, collapsing into the freezing water. The river, swollen by melt water from the hills where it had its source, carried him many leagues southwest, until at last the swift current died, and he was washed up, numb and unconscious, in unfamiliar country.

x x x

As he slowly came round for the second time the first thing he noticed was the frantic calling of a bird in the tree above him. He tried to raise his head to catch a glimpse of the distressed creature, but even that was painful. He tried to get up but he was too weak from his wounds and, he noticed for the first time, hunger. What was the point in moving anyway? He'd fled; he'd given up his honour and betrayed his clan, why carry on?

He slumped sideways and saw what it was the bird was shrieking about: its nest had fallen from its branch and now lay in a pile of soft leaves at the base of the tree. By some miracle all the eggs were intact. This was a sign, he thought; the spirits had given him these eggs so that he could live. And so he must live, the ancestors commanded him so; live so that he might avenge them.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Ok so this is a little shorter than the previous chapters but I figured it was a good place to leave this one so hey. One thing I might be advised to mention, there's one scene here with some pretty unpleasant implications but I assure you it is all implied and as such any damage can be considered self inflicted. Please give as much feedback as possible, enjoy.**

**Also as it seems to have been missed in my note for chapter 1 I would like to say AGAIN that my pen name is based on the character - I am not self-inserting**

Koona Deephound was sat on an old overturned wheelbarrow in the abbey orchards as he sulked. He sulked a lot these days and the orchard, with its aura of quiet tranquillity and the scent of the falling blossom, was his favourite place to do it. Koona was a sea otter. Not born at Redwall, he had arrived at the abbey about four seasons after Tarna and her brother as an orphan. Naturally the abbey-dwellers had taken him in, and just like Tarna and Riktor he was now a fully-fledged Redwaller.

He was more or less the same age as Tarna, as far as he knew at any rate: after many years of trying not to remember he had at last largely forgotten the finer details of his old life. As for his new life, he had so far spent the majority of it earning a well-deserved reputation as Redwall's foremost troublemaker. When food went missing from the kitchens, when dibbuns ended up outside the abbey walls, it was a safe bet that Koona was involved at some level: usually right at the top. It didn't seem to matter how many times he was disciplined or how many of his elders told him he was too old for this kind of behaviour he took no notice.

Right now, however, he had no time for making mischief: he was too busy sulking. The reason why he was sulking was due to something he'd lived with all the while he'd been at Redwall but had only just realised. He and Tarna were friends; not best friends, but friends none the less. The problem was, in the last few weeks he'd realised something: he was madly in love with Tarna. Until now they'd just been mates; they'd hung around with the other beasts their age, chatting and making jokes; when they were younger they'd stolen food from the kitchen windowsill together. Now though, whenever he saw her he didn't see his old playmate; instead he saw her sparkling hazel eyes, her lips...he usually managed to stop himself looking any lower.

Perhaps it wouldn't be a problem if he hadn't been such a trouble maker; he knew Tarna thought of him as an immature trickster, almost like a little brother. Now he was regretting all his seasons of practical jokes, wishing he could prove to her that he could be mature and intelligent and all the things he was sure she'd want him to be. Not that it would matter of course: she was beautiful and lovely; he was a typical scruffy sea otter.

He'd tried to tell her of course, many times; just on the off chance that she might see in him what he saw in her. But somehow he could never quite get the words out; every time he'd just stutter, or gabble about completely random stuff, never having the guts to just tell her how he felt about her; the longing he harboured deep down inside him. So now he just sat there and sulked.

As he looked out gloomily across the abbey lawns, it took him a little while to notice Tarna and Lyla coming down the wallsteps and back to the abbey for lunch. When he did finally see them his heart skipped a beat. This was some sort of sign, it had to be: right when he was on the verge total despair there was the source of all his troubles walking and laughing casually across the lawns. He clenched his paws in determination; he would do it, now.

As he walked over to the abbey doors his legs felt numb, as though he was walking in a dream. His head span as his heart urged him on and his head screamed at him to turn back; his stomach on the other hand had helpfully decided not to complicate the situation by staying behind in the orchard. This was madness, he thought; what would she want with him? What would she say when he told her? She probably had no idea he felt this way, or she'd known all along, and had been preparing her cruel rejection. No, this could be his last chance, he couldn't chicken out now. He was just going to stroll over there and tell his childhood friend he loved her; just be calm and do his thing. Do his thing? What did that even mean? What was his thing? How exactly did he do it? And there was Lyla: she'd be standing there watching, probably knowing exactly how Tarna would to turn him down. The two had probably been planning together for weeks, while sat by sulking and trying to muster the courage to say it.

All of a sudden he realised he was mere feet from the two maids, who had as yet to register his presence. He opened his mouth to say something but all he could manage was a sort of spluttering, coughing sound. Tarna and Lyla both turned around in surprise when they heard him, and he stood there floundering as his brain scrabbled wildly for something to say. Finally it settled on,

'How are you Tarna?' His voice shook as the words tumbled from his mouth.

'Oh hi Koona,' said Tarna, 'funny seeing you, we were just talking about you.' Koona's heart stopped dead at that.

'Oh?' he managed to force from his lips. Tarna looked at Lyla before replying,

'Are you ok?' she said, 'You've been acting a little bit...odd lately, we were just wondering if anything's wrong?' This was it surely; he couldn't falter now.

'No nothing's wrong, I've just been thinking about some stuff recently.'

'What stuff?' said Tarna, 'If it's ok to ask.' Koona shuffled his rudder uneasily.

'Well I was just wondering if, perhaps,' Come on just say it, yelled a voice in his head. Be a man! 'I was just wondering if maybe,' Out with it! 'should I help with the entertainment for the Midsummer's Day feast? You know, do an old sea otter jig or something.' Great, you blew it.

'Oh, is that all?' replied Tarna, 'Err, yeah, that sounds great.'

'Really?' he said, smiling shakily, 'You don't think I'd embarrass myself or anything?'

'I'm sure we'd all love to see it.' said Lyla, 'I don't think I've ever seen a sea otter jig before. I suppose you could get Riktor or someone to accompany you?'

'Skipper? Yeah I could ask him to get the old pipes out. Great then I guess.' Tarna and Lyla walked into the abbey as Koona felt his stomach catching up with him having taken on a great deal of lead.

x x x

That night Koona didn't sleep much. He lay awake cursing himself for once again being too pathetic to tell Tarna how he felt about her. How hard could it be? Surely all he had to do was say three simple words and get a simple enough answer. But it wasn't that simple, was it? In fact right now he couldn't think of anything more complex. How was it that a single beautiful maid could make life so incredibly complicated?

When he first came to Redwall it had been easy to know what to make of Tarna; a friend, nothing more. Back then he'd been scarcely more than a dibbun, and life is so much simpler to the young. He curled up in his blanket and for a while pretended he was a dibbun again; free from the problems that adulthood brought, still young and innocent. Well, as innocent as he'd ever been.

He would have stayed like that forever, cocooned in his blissful fantasy, but he knew that it could not last. In a few hours the sun would rise and he'd be forced to face life in all its complexities once more. He closed his eyes and eventually drifted into a light sleep: the one place where he could truly be free from his cares.

A few rooms away Tarna was also having trouble sleeping. She, however, was not plagued by self-pity and regret; but rather by uncertainty. It was something that had never occurred to her until now: what was she to do with herself now she was no longer a child. The thought had come to her when she realised that Lyla, who was of an almost identical age, was ruler of the whole abbey. She on the other hand still clung to her childhood, never really considering that she was in fact an adult. She still did whatever her elders told her, did the same chores and past the time in the same way she had for many seasons.

But what about now? What route should her life take? Was she supposed to take some sort of role in running the abbey? Lyla, after all, was the Mother Abbess herself; but then, she had always been more mature than her peers. Eighteen going on forty: that was her. But what was she to do? Then a thought struck her: was she supposed to start a family? She'd never even contemplated finding a mate, let alone having cubs of her own. Besides which who would be her mate? There were hardly any otters at Redwall, and most of them were families with young cubs. She'd always found her brother's crew a bundle of laughs, but she'd certainly never been attracted to any of them. There was Koona; the young rogue could be quite charming in his own strange, immature way. But Koona had always been a friend to her, as she had been to him.

So who was there? She couldn't marry someone she didn't love, and she'd never really loved anyone; she'd always been too much of a child to think of such things. She may have had the occasional schoolbeast crush on a handsome older beast, but she'd never been in love. Was she supposed have been? From what Riktor had told her their parents had got engaged when they were not much older than her. What would they say to her if they were here now? She'd never known her mother, and she had only the faintest memories of her father. It suddenly struck her that she knew hardly anything about her family other than her brother. Riktor was only a few seasons older than her, and he remembered as much about their mother as she did about their father. He rarely talked about either of them; all Tarna really knew was that her mother had died in childbirth, and her father, who had been a fisherbeast, of some form of fever. She felt a solitary tear run down her cheek as she wished that she could have them there now.

Stop it, she told herself; you're a grown beast now, much too old for crying like this. She hastily turned her thoughts back to her predicament. Was she really expected to have a family? She'd heard some of the older, more traditional beasts talking about ones who had lived their lives without ever finding a mate or having children as though it were something to be ashamed of. On the other hand she knew many beasts much older than herself who lived alone and never seemed at all dejected about it.

Eventually she decided it was too much to think about in one night. Let it wait until morning at least, she might at least have a clear head after some sleep. It wasn't long before her weary brain drifted into dreamless sleep. By morning she would have forgotten the problem entirely.

Deep in Mossflower woods another beast was laying awake, though a different reason entirely. Gloria shivered as the breeze cut straight her blouse to her skin. She looked down at her sleeping brother, Peter; at least someone was getting some rest around her. She managed a slight smile as he snored softly; how good it must be to be so young and innocent, so unaware of the cruelty of the world. She shifted her feet slightly in a vain attempt to coax the circulation back to her paws, but the rope that bound them was much too tight.

She looked over at the rats that sat drinking around the fire, focusing all the hatred she could muster at them as though it might somehow strike them down and set her and her little brother free. But she had learned by now that anger was no use without a sword to follow it up with. She felt tears stinging at her eyes but fought to hold them back, defiantly refusing to let the suffering that was forced upon them beat her.

As she watched the rats she saw one of them get up and slink away unnoticed. His name was Werral, a cowardly but vicious beast who was the sort who'd only kick someone who was already down. It was his particular interest that frightened her the most however, even though the others had kept him in line up 'til now. She knew this was only because they knew what else they could ransom after her parents had bought her life, but it was all the protection she had.

She felt her heart beat faster as she saw him approach, reassuring herself that he'd never be brave enough to cross the others. As he squatted down in front of her she could smell the alcohol on his breath.

'Hello missy.' he said, grinning wickedly at her, 'You got something I want.' As he spoke she could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

'You know what the others have told you,' she said, 'you want to cross them?' She tried to muster as much courage as she could but her reply still came out shakily. Werral laughed quietly,

'I know what they said, but as it happens I'm sick of waiting for your parents to pay up, if they ever will that it. I don't reckon they care enough to buy you back; these woodlanders always have fresh brats coming along. As for the others it doesn't matter to me; nothing's going to happen. You know why? Because if they ask you'll tell them nothing happened, otherwise I'll gut that baby brother of yours and then it'll happen again, and again, and again. You follow me?' Gloria felt her guts twisting into knots; this wasn't happening, not to her. She couldn't let anything happen to Peter, not to save herself. Werral smiled, 'I knew you'd understand.' He said.

She felt tears choking her as he untied her legs; then suddenly he stopped as they both heard a rustle in the foliage behind them. This was followed by the sharp crack of somebeast treading on a dry stick.

'Who's that?' demanded Werral. 'That you Taggan? Sneaking off into the bushes are you? I know what you're doing, go someplace else.'

'Taggan's still by the fire.' Gloria managed to say past the lump in her throat. There was another, louder rustle, and Werral's eyes remained fixed, wide open on a spot just a few feet behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Ah the first chapter of the new year, hopefully all the Christmas food hasn't affected my writing. My usual proof reader is now unavailable so I apologise if there are more mistakes than usual. Anyway I hope you enjoy it and would be kind enough to review it.**

It was just after sunrise when Riktor Bloodfjord woke. He sat up in his bed and stretched, basking in the early morning sun that warmed the entire room with its comforting rays. Riktor never drew the curtains in his room; he liked to let the sun gently wake him in the mornings. Heaving himself out of bed he dressed simply in a drab tunic, belted about the waist with his favourite sling.

As he made his way downstairs he could smell the freshly baked bread being pulled from the ovens. The delicious smell was one of the things that brought him from his chamber so early in the morning, that and his determination not to let himself grow soft from abbey life. He remembered well the many nights he'd had to spend with no rest at all, keeping watch while his baby sister slept. Baby; he still thought of her as that, even though she was a proper adult now. To him though she would always be in some small way the little cub he carried all the way south to Mossflower.

He entered the kitchens and was greeted cheerily by Friar Gilbert, the chubby old squirrel who oversaw all the cooking in the abbey.

''Ello Skip.' he said, waving one chubby paw while the other held the long wooden paddle he used to retrieve the golden loaves from the great stone ovens.

'Mornin' Gilbert,' replied Riktor, 'what you got for me today?' Gilbert hid a smile as he feigned indignation,

'Always the same with you isn't it?' he said, 'You come into my kitchen expecting me to stuff you 'til you burst like it's some sort of buffet.' Riktor smiled; he knew the routine,

'Oh why don't you shove a sock in it and give us some grub fatty.' The jolly friar laughed and handed him a small crusty loaf, sawn in half and spread with butter and warm jam. Riktor tore a chunk from the sandwich with his teeth and chewed, raising his eyebrows in surprise, 'You added a little hotroot to the jam I see.'

'Well you know I love you so Skip.' Gilbert replied.

'I love you too mate.'

'Alright you can shut up and eat now.' Riktor grinned and carried on devouring his breakfast. 'You and your crew planning any forays into Mossflower any time soon?' Gilbert asked. Riktor finished chewing before answering,

'Aye not before too long.' he said, 'It's about this time of year the slave traders start doing business, forest'll be crawling with the scum in a few weeks. Still, we'll probably stay here for another few days at least.' Gilbert shook his head sadly,

'It sure is a sad thing that it takes the likes of you and your crew to keep innocent beasts safe.' Riktor nodded in agreement,

'It sure is, but at least we seem to be getting the job done: there's been no major vermin activity in Mossflower since last autumn when those weasels showed up looking for trouble, and we sure put paid to them.' he bit off another chunk of bread and chewed pensively before continuing, 'To be honest, I reckon we've more or less seen the last of the slave trade in Mossflower; it's just not profitable for them anymore.'

'So where do you think they've gone?' Riktor shrugged,

'Further north I expect; somewhere without any strong beasts with a sense of justice. I'll tell you something though; I was talking to a sea otter captain in the Woodland Thistle the other day, not from around here, said him and his crew were resting before continuing their voyage south. Anyway, he told me that the slaves are taken to some king in the far north.'

The Woodland Thistle was a travellers' inn built by the side of the road that ran through Mossflower. It played host all manner of beasts passing through the forest for whatever reason they might have, and subsequently had become the number one hub for news from near and far alike. The landlord, a very private beast by the name of Filroy, did very well off the inn's reputation for fine ale and gossip, even if he occasionally entertained some of Mossflower's less savoury denizens. As far as he was concerned if they paid their bills without inconveniencing him they could stay.

'The far north?' said Gilbert, 'You mean?' Riktor nodded,

'Aye mate, exactly.'

'You don't seem bothered.'

'I may have been born there but it's not my home, not for many seasons now. It doesn't sound like it's much the same place it was when we left anyway; as far as I remember there was no slave trade back then. Then again, it's not like I remember all that much anyway; just running around in the snow and sitting by the fire with my parents. That's all in the past though, me and Tarna left all that well behind; we live in Mossflower now.'

'You'd never want to go back then?'

'Not likely; it's just cold all year round, with no sun and no food in the winter and snowdrifts so deep you'd disappear if you stepped in one. No mate, I'm perfectly happy here thank you very much. Now if you don't mind I'm off for a swim.'

'Good, that way the rest of us might get a bite to eat.'

x x x

It was a couple of hours later when Tarna awoke from her slumber. By now the sun was well up and she could hear the early risers making their way downstairs to breakfast. She pulled back the curtains and lay in bed a while, letting the sun warm the stone floor before she got up. It being summer this did not take long and she waited only a few minutes before climbing out of bed and stretching. She yawned loudly as she opened the wardrobe and pulled out a clean smock. As she pulled off her long nightgown she shivered as her paw passed over the scar on her back. She traced it with a claw all the way from her left shoulder to just above her right hip.

She didn't remember actually getting it, but her brother told her it happened when they were playing near a frozen river and she had fallen through the ice. Apparently one of the jagged edges of the hole she fell through had gashed her deeply across her back. As she stood with her back to the tall mirror she could see its silvery outline beneath the dark brown fur. It must have hurt something terrible she thought to herself.

Pulling the smock over her head and belting it around her middle she opened the door into the hallway and made her way down the long flight of steps to Cavern Hole. She never really bothered with brushing her fur or wearing makeup or perfume, not unless it was for some special occasion: she'd never exactly been the most feminine of maids.

As she descended the steps from the upper dormitories she saw Lyla making her way downstairs ahead of her.

'Morning Lyla,' she said, 'you're up early.' Lyla turned and rubbed her eyes sleepily, when she saw who had hailed her her face broke into a tired smile.

'Morning Tarna,' she said with a yawn, 'sleep well?'

'Better than you by the looks of it.'

'Oh I slept like a log for all of about three hours, before I woke up in the very small hours of the morning.'

'Didn't you try to get back to sleep?'

'Oh I tried, but that's the funny thing about sleep: once you start trying to sleep you'll be awake all night; but when you try to stay awake you'll blink once, open your eyes and it'll be morning. Oh well, at least I can have breakfast in peace without a dozen beasts coming to me with all their urgent matters. You know sometimes I get so tired of having to tell everyone what to do.'

'Oh come on Lyla you love telling people what to do, that's why they made you an abbess.'

'Oh shut it plank-tail.'

'I'll show you just how much like a plank in a minute.' The pair laughed as they came to the bottom of the stairs and made their way to the kitchen. As they entered the sweltering room Friar Gilbert was standing over a large vat of porridge; whilst his assistant, a young mouse by the name of Tobias or Toby as he preferred to be called, was carrying a large cheese up from the cellars. A strapping and handsome young beast, Toby often proved a great help to the friar, who was well out of his prime and hardly what one might call athletic.

He set the cheese down on a worktop with a grunt before greeting Tarna and Lyla,

'Morning Miss Tarna, Abbess Ma'am. Feeling hungry this morning? Ah what am I saying, course you are; especially you Miss Tarna, I know what otters are like in the mornings.' Tarna giggled slightly at that. 'So what'll it be? We've got porridge over there or you could try this monster I've just hauled up from the cellar with a bit of our dear old friar's bread.'

'Old? I'll give you old.' growled Gilbert through smiling teeth.

'Porridge for me mate,' said Tarna, 'I don't eat cheese this early in the morning.'

'I'll try the cheese.' said Lyla, 'Mmm, smells good; I'd say...last summer, studded with hazelnuts. Am I right?' Toby raised his eyebrows in admiration,

'Impressive, you should've been a cook instead of an abbess, Ma'am.' Lyla chuckled,

'I don't think so; I can't cook to save my life. I do like a nice bit of cheese though.' She and Tarna left the kitchens and went to sit in on a couple of rush mats in Cavern Hole.

'Shouldn't you be up at the front?' asked Tarna. Lyla sighed,

'Not today,' she said, 'I don't feel like sitting up there by myself this morning. There's hardly anyone here so no-one will notice.' For a few minutes neither of them spoke, Lyla being too tired and Tarna too interested in her food. After a while Tarna spoke up,

'Do you really get tired of being Abbess?' she said through a mouthful of porridge.

'I don't know,' said Lyla, 'it's just so much work sometimes; every little thing that goes on here needs me to oversee it.'

'You get to boss everyone around though.'

'Believe me the novelty soon wears off.'

'I'll have to take your word for it I guess.' They hadn't quite finished eating when Riktor came running down the stone steps from the Great Hall.

'Abbess Ma'am,' he panted, 'there's something outside you need to see.'

'What is it?' Lyla replied.

'We need your permission to open the gate; two shrews are outside with a couple of young mice. If you could hurry Ma'am they're not in a good way.' Lyla jumped to her feet, her breakfast quickly forgotten. Anger now flashed through her calm eyes,

'Then what are they still doing outside? Do you really believe you need to consult me before letting in creatures in distress? Run back now and get that gate open immediately Skipper!'

'Right away Ma'am.' said Riktor, hurrying back to the gate. Lyla turned to Tarna,

'I'm sorry I had to shout like that, but do you see what I mean now? Now can I ask you a favour? Go up to the infirmary and tell Brother Conor that he'll be receiving two more patients shortly.'

x x x

'Sure they're pretty shaken up but otherwise they're fine.' Tarna, Lyla, Riktor and the two shrews looked up from the table they were seated around as Brother Conor, the Abbey Infirmary Keeper, emerged from the room where Gloria and Peter were now sleeping soundly. 'I gave them both something to help them sleep and with a few hours rest they'll be just grand.'

'Thank you Brother,' said Lyla, 'I'm sure they couldn't be in a better pair of paws.'

'Ah no need to thank me Ma'am,' the cheerful mouse replied, ''tis only my job.' Lyla turned to the two shrews. The younger, whose name was Aiden, was handsome and lean with broad shoulders and a tuft of blond fur on his head that would never go down. The elder, a large beast with a lot of presence and slightly greying fur by the name of Daveth, downed the last of a mug of ale and wiped the foam from his whiskers.

'Ah, thank you; that does me a world of good.'

'Anything you need just ask.' Lyla replied, 'Perhaps now you could tell us a bit more about how you found these poor creatures.'

'Well like I said we're just passing through Mossflower on our way south. We was only a couple of miles from the Woodland Thistle when it got dark so we decided to walk through the night and have a proper bed to sleep in; that and some of that ale they serve there. Anyway it was about, hmm, what time would you say Aiden?'

'About three, maybe four hours before midnight I reckon.' Daveth nodded,

'Aye something like that. So yeah about three hours before midnight we heard this noise, I don't know to describe it; like a madbeast screaming and bellowing. I swear I've never heard anything like it, hope I never will again either. Just picture the beast that lives in the deepest, darkest pit of your worst nightmare: that's what made that sound. Well eventually we figured that there was something in Mossflower that needed our help, so we set off towards where we thought the sound had come from.

'We spent about half an hour wandering round the in forest until we found this clearing. Now I'm not exactly what you'd call squeamish but I was sick as soon as I saw it. There were about eight or nine rats, or what was left of them anyway. I say about; it's difficult to say for certain how many full bodies there were.'

'What, you mean?' said a shocked Tarna.

'Yep missy, whoever or whatever made that sound didn't just kill them; they tore them to pieces. A few had been cut in half by some sort of blade, although I've never come across a weapon that could have done that. Two had been shot with a bow, some bow it must have been too: they'd both been killed with the same arrow; skewered them both it did then pinned them to the tree behind them. As for the rest I can't say exactly how they died but if I didn't know better I'd say it was with teeth and claws. No clean cuts, no arrows; just torn limb from limb. Except one, we found one at the base of a tree; he hadn't been cut or mauled, whatever killed him just threw him against that tree like a ragdoll. Believe me it was no sapling but it was splintered as though it were a matchstick.

He was still alive when we found him, don't ask me how. We tried to find out what had happened there but he couldn't speak; his mouth just opened and closed like a fish out of water before he coughed up his guts and died. It was only after that that we found the two young'uns; they was lying behind the tree, too scared to even move. We tried to talk to them but they couldn't even tell us their names, so we thought of the best place we could take them to get help.'

There was silence whilst the stunned listeners grappled with what they had just heard. Finally it was Riktor that spoke,

'I've travelled from further north than any beast at Redwall had ever heard of; I've been to a lot of strange places and seen things that I sometimes wish I hadn't, but I've never heard of anything that could slaughter nine fully grown beasts like that.'

'I assure you I described it exactly as it was.' said Daveth.

'No-one's doubting that,' said Lyla, 'but I don't think any of us can imagine the sort of beast that would even be capable of doing something like that.'

'Only creature I've ever heard of that could possibly be that strong is a badger,' said Aiden, 'and even with the bloodwrath in every vein I doubt one could tear a rat in half like that, nor make such a sound.'

'Which leaves us with a problem,' Riktor interjected, 'because whatever it is what's done this is still out there roaming the woods.'


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Oh my good grapefruits it's been a long time - more than half a year! Well if there was ever anyone missing this story (and I would be chuffed to bits if there were) they'd be happy to know that I hereby vow to be much stricter with myself, and write at least half a page every day. Please take the time to review this one, especially the last section - I'm intrigued to know what people think of it.**

**Also I feel obliged to mention Redwall's creator, Brian Jacques, who tragically passed away since I published my last chapter. He was one of the great influences of my childhood and continues to inspire me in my work. He will of course be dearly missed by all his loyal fans.**

The sun was high in the sky as the party of Tarna, Riktor, several otters from his crew and the two shrews continued their sweep of the woodlands. So far they had been searching for about three hours and had still failed to locate the clearing Daveth and Aiden had described.

'Are you sure you know where you're going?' said Tarna.

'Look missy,' said Aiden, 'I don't know if you've ever tried remembering your way through a forest at night, but it ain't easy. So in answer to your question, no, but if you have a better idea by all means share it with us.'

'Alright, alright, I'm sorry; we'll just keep looking.' Another half an hour passed as they continued to scour the woods with no sign of the clearing the shrews had described the night before. Suddenly one of Riktor's otters, a young female named Rhona, stopped and sniffed the air.

'Can you smell that?' she said. The others copied her, wrinkling their noses at the fetid smell the breeze carried into their nostrils.

'Smells like a corpse alright,' said Riktor, 'they've only been dead since last night so we must be close.' They followed the scent upwind and had gone just a few hundred yards before they came upon the grisly tableau.

Tarna's heart missed a beat as her eyes beheld the carnage: the grim account that Daveth had given seemed mild by comparison. She saw he had been far from exaggerating when he used the words, "limb from limb". Severed limbs and heads lay scattered amidst miscellaneous chunks of torso. The earth beneath their paws seemed saturated with blood so that it oozed out from the soil and formed puddles wherever they trod. Nothing in the clearing was untouched by the red dye that stained trees, grass and fur as though they were canvas beneath the brush of some deranged artist. Indeed everything in that clearing was so lifeless that to those who looked upon it it seemed hard to believe that it had not been moulded from clay and washed with red paint; although surely such a scene could not have been drawn from even the most disturbed and maniacal mind.

Riktor stood in front of an ash tree, almost as wide as his own waist. It was, as the shrews had described, splintered and bent like a matchstick crushed between fingers. At its base was the broken corpse of a rat, blood clotting in his matted fur all the way down his front.

'I know a rat's vermin,' he said, 'I know it's in his nature to be brutal and cruel to anybeast, but sometimes even that doesn't matter; no-beast should have to die like that. I've spent most of my life fighting vermin, but this is just...wrong.'

'I'll second that,' said Daveth sombrely, 'even vermin deserve a clean death. These rats weren't killed, they were slaughtered.' There was silence as even the sun seemed to sadden at the grim occasion, clouds moving in to throw a shadow over the forest floor.

'Where do you suppose it went?' asked Tarna through the lump in her throat.

'That way.' said Riktor, pointing, 'See the broken branches? And look there's prints as well; Lutra's bones, it's a giant!' Tracking was hardly necessary; the killer had left a trail of broken and bloodstained branches that lead the way better than any prints. As they followed it it seemed to weave and meander drunkenly through the trees, the further they went the clearer and more erratic it became until it ran in such wide loops that they began to wonder if they were merely following a circle.

It was some time before the trail ended; once more the searchers were shocked by the sight that greeted them. A giant: nearly twice as tall as Riktor, who was himself a large beast. Its fur, or rather the little that was not stained reddish brown, was of a silvery grey hue that stood out clearly from the green foliage and dark brown earth. Beneath the matted coat muscles and tendons bulged like coils of rope, and there was not one limb or area of torso not ripped wide open by whatever cruel means, or else with a broken arrow embedded deep in fibrous tissue. Held loosely in leviathan paws were a battleaxe fully as long as Tarna and a crossbow that looked like it could shoot the stars themselves from the heavens. The bolts crammed into the quiver that hung at its waist were each the size of javelins.

None of them moved; they stood rooted to the spot in awe of the colossus that lay before them. It seemed that they had strayed into a dream, or rather a nightmare where such terrible apparitions as this were flesh and blood, and stalked the forest dealing in carnage the likes of which they had witnessed earlier that same day.

Tentatively Riktor edged towards the monster with his javelin held ready. After an eternity he reached the lifeless form and prodded it with his footpaw. Nothing. He lowered his weapon, bending over to examine the body. Only up close did the full extent of its injuries become apparent: muscles had been reduced to bloody rags in some areas, great chasms carved deep into the flesh. Some of these had been roughly dressed with strips of cloth torn from the drab tartan kilt the beast wore. At least a score of arrowheads remained buried in the tattered flesh, cruel barbs holding them tightly in place. On the back of the skull a great rift had been opened up that gaped wide open, filled with still moist blood.

'That'll be what killed him.' said Riktor, 'No-beast could survive a wound like that for more than a few days. Frankly I'm not sure I believe it survived as long as it did, let alone had the strength to do what it did; I've heard of badgers being brought down by less.' He tried to prise the paws from the great axe and crossbow, but rigor mortis had already locked them immovably shut. 'Have you ever seen anything like this?' he said in wonderment, 'I didn't think something like this could come from ought but the forges of Salamandastron.' He stood up and took a step backwards to behold the gargantuan form in full.

'What should we do with it?' asked Tarna, 'If it's another beast we should at least bury it instead of leaving it where it fell.'

'And how do you suggest we shift that thing?' asked Daveth.

'Tarna's right,' said Riktor, 'it deserves what little we can do for it.' Using weapons and paws they managed to dig a shallow pit that it would just about fit into. All of them gathered on one side of the beast to roll it into the makeshift grave, Tarna reached underneath its great silver flank then withdrew her paw sharply. 'What is it?' asked Riktor.

'Put your paw there.' said Tarna, a slight tremor in her voice. Riktor did as she instructed,

'What did,' he began to ask, before he withdrew his paw just as she had done. The others looked at them both in puzzlement.

'What's got you two so vexed?' asked Aiden, reaching down and putting his paw where the two otters had, underneath the left flank. He could feel blood, still liquid and warm from being shielded from the air by the mass of fur and muscle. He slid his paw along the soaking fur, wondering what on earth he could be looking for, until without warning he felt it. A heart beat.

x x x

Alexei wasn't listening as the aging ermine droned on about the glorious military history of his father, about how the ermine were stronger than ever with a great king governing them, about the honour that the royal family brought to their people. He'd stopped caring nearly an hour ago and now he had stopped paying attention altogether; this was his coronation, the glory should go to him.

All his life he'd heard other beasts showering his father with praise and honour, paying homage for deeds he could scarcely remember in his twilight seasons, and now it was his turn. He'd waited many long years for this day; he had gone to every possible length to claim his rightful seat on the throne of the ermine, now it was time to reap the fruits of his treacherous labours.

In some ways it had been surprisingly easy; even his father's murder. Common beasts were so ignorant, so easily manipulated; they were lost without a strong paw like his to guide them. That was in the end what they craved; leadership, guidance, one stronger than them to make the decisions, shoulder the responsibility. The aging Ivan had become less and less the great ruler he had once been with each passing season until it took only a pawful of gold and promises to woo once loyal subjects into his fold.

Now though there was no need for bribery or deception; now he was king. Or at least he would be as soon as the ancient councillor would stop droning on and stick the bloody crown on his head. He decided that his first royal decree would outlaw ceremonies lasting longer than half an hour. Royal decree. What a wonderful phrase. He imagined the sound of it as the heralds called out his latest whim to the masses. And what exactly would they be announcing? A longer term of conscription? The removal of the wolves from his army? Yes, yes, all those would come sooner or later but what else? The golden rule by which any ruler should set his policy was that the populace will allow anything as long as they are either kept fat or dazzled with grand gestures. To Alexei the latter appealed more, and just how dazzled they would be!

His contemplations were cut short however; all his plans and schemes were forgotten as the overwhelming mixture of joy and exhilaration took over his mind. The venerable councillor lifted the heavy golden crown from the cushion upon which the now much relieved groom had been holding it all through the recitation, held it aloft for the crowd to see and turned to Alexei.

He didn't hear the words that were spoken to him as the cold metal touched his head: he didn't need anybeast to confirm to him that now he truly was king.

x x x

Alek stood at the summit of a treeless hill. Beneath his feet was snow, and all around him, across the barren landscape and far into the distance, white flakes lay as smooth and even as the winter falls that covered the great ice sheets of his homeland, farther North than Ivan's paw had ever reached. The hill itself was rounded and smooth, and for many leagues in every direction – for all he knew to the ends of the Earth – the land was flat and un-formed.

No sun shone, nor was there moon nor star to illuminate the endless waste, yet the sky – a flat, pale grey that left it scarcely distinguishable from the Earth – was as bright and clear as any morning in a Northern summer; the faint vale of dawn still upon it.

As he stood motionless a chill breeze sprang up from behind him. Instinctively he turned his nose to its source and saw dark clouds rolling ominously towards him, moving with unnatural speed for the faint wind that drove them. he felt the specks of rain on his muzzle and heard the first growl of distant thunder, carried on the wind like the challenge of some monstrous behemoth of legend.

Wait, he thought: rain? Surely only in winter were there snows so perfect and even, and surely there could be no rain in winter. But then of course he was not on snow. Why had he been thinking about snow? He was standing in a forest, the familiar scent of pine and mossy undergrowth in his nostrils. He began to move towards the storm. He couldn't feel his legs moving him, nor could he hear his footfalls but he kept moving none the less, as if carried by some alien force.

Suddenly the forest was different; the scent of his homeland was gone and the trees were foreign and unsettling. No, the forest hadn't changed – it was the same forest it had always been; the great pines rose like ancient monuments into the canopy, throwing long shadows onto the carpet of needles and moss and shielding the patchy summer snows from the Sun high above. The noise of the thunder grew, and the wind howled in the trees like an entire pack of his kin. He continued his ghost-like passage between the trees as the rain became torrential, lashing the towering pines in sheets like thousand-tailed whips.

Gradually the gloom amidst the trees began to lift; the undergrowth began to thin and finally a blinding wall of rain broke against his fur as he left the forest. Ahead of him lay an expanse of open, rocky ground, ending in a steep mound that rose out of such flat plane that it resembled the black of a great scaly beast, half buried in the Earth. At the base of the mound was a gaping hole, revealing a cavern of such total darkness it could have been the very mouth of Hell.

As he began to move across the open space he could feel a warning stirring in his heart. No matter what he did not want to enter that cave. As he passed silently over the bare ground he could here sounds over the roar of the storm; voices - cries of anger, pain, fear, confusion; clashes of steel; the soft, wet tearing of flesh and the hard crack of shattered bones. Suddenly the ground at his feet was charred and bloodstained, all around him lay bones – some complete skeletons and others lying disembodied and in pieces. The cavern came ever closer; he tried to force himself to stop but his efforts were in vain and he was drawn towards the gaping mouth. Inside were more voices, young and old alike; for the first time since he was a cub he felt fear – true, icy, heartstopping fear that held him rigid like rope drawn ever tighter around him until he could hardly breathe. He tried to jam his eyes but they remained open as the darkness swallowed him.


End file.
